


Wish I would have (laid my hands on you)

by UnchartedHemispheres



Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Will they - won't they
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-29 02:20:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19820536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnchartedHemispheres/pseuds/UnchartedHemispheres
Summary: It took a few more weeks of telling himself he was just being paranoid before he finally started to believe it: His principal, The Right Honorable Julia Montague, was fucking with him. Most effectively fucking with him, to be exact.AU post 1x01. Neither Thornton Circus nor St Matthews ever happen. Instead, Julia and David engage in some hostilities, games and other activities over the course of a couple months.





	Wish I would have (laid my hands on you)

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this before christmas - it's been so long I never thought I would actually end up posting this! 10 chapters is an estimate for now, it might end up being a few more.

It was subtle at first. So subtle that David was convinced for the longest time he was imagining things. Making stuff up in his own head without any regard for reality - he’d been known to sometimes do that.

He reigned himself in, took a step back, tried to look at it objectively. He was probably misconstruing things, misreading signs, misinterpreting situations. There was no way that this was actually happening, it would be absurd. He wasn’t usually slow on the uptake, but this time, he thought he might be jumping the gun.

It took a few more weeks of telling himself he was just being paranoid before he finally started to believe it: His principal, The Right Honorable Julia Montague, was fucking with him. Most effectively fucking with him, to be exact.

Lending her his shirt, in retrospective, had been the single dumbest decision he’d made in the recent past. It had been an act of chivalrousness born out of a desperate need to find some common ground with this woman he was doomed to spend a large part of his life with for the foreseeable future. He deeply regretted the moment he’d started unbuttoning his shirt to hand it over to her, something that his job description definitely didn’t ask for - he was sure “give the very shirt off your back to your principal when required” was written nowhere in the regs. He should have just let her cancel the damn interview or let her go out there with the coffee stains on her fancy silk blouse. But no, he’d had to go and do the goddamn _right_ thing. _  
_

The moment he’d handed the shirt over to her he’d realized that that meant she was actually going to put it on and _wear_ it. He’d been able to hear her rustling around behind him while undressing and for the first time he’d become consciously aware that she wasn’t just a politician, an MP, his principal - no, she was also a woman. A very attractive woman, at that. It wasn’t like he hadn’t noticed before, on a subconscious level, but the shirt incident had made him aware of the fact - painfully aware.

Watching her give an interview wearing clothes that, five minutes earlier, had been on his body, had been an experience. He’d seen how the collar brushed up against her neck, noticed the ends of his cuffs stick out of the sleeves of her blazer a little, watched her absentmindedly stroke over buttons he himself had unfastened just a short while ago. He’d had a brief flash of his fingers undoing those buttons again, slowly slipping one after the other through its corresponding hole, revealing bits of her skin underneath. He’d had to shake his head to straighten out his thoughts, but then he’d become distracted by her answer to a probing question, some bullshit party line about the war that she couldn’t possibly believe in or stand behind. The moment had passed and his confusion at seeing her in his shirt had been replaced by anger at the words coming out of her mouth.

He didn’t know what had happened to his shirt afterwards, hadn’t really considered it until a few days later, when she’d handed it back to him, freshly dry cleaned and crisply ironed. It had felt a bit like an explosive device in his hands, a thing too intimate, too personal for the purely professional relationship they shared. The idea that he was now going to wear the shirt that she’d worn to work had been both enticing and off-putting. She’d been friendly and had started asking him questions, which he’d answered politely, slightly confused that she’d seemed to be taking an interest. It’d been almost nice, the two of them exchanging a few tidbits about their lives outside their jobs. Then he’d made the mistake of asking her about the war and had found out that it hadn’t just been a party line after all. “I’m about making the hard choices,” she’d said, each word drenched in contempt at his perceived audacity to question her political beliefs.

She’d told him in no uncertain terms that she didn’t give a shit about his opinion, and he’d been surprised by another one of those flashes, imagining himself bending her over that bloody table she was posturing in front of, screwing her senseless until she was shuddering underneath him and gasping his name in ecstasy.

She knew fuck all about hard choices, he’d thought later as he’d been stuffing the shirt back into his closet. Having to pick between two of your best mates, choosing which one to drag to safety and which one to leave to die, that was a hard choice. Signing a paper condemning the poor bastards to be there in the first place, that was the easy part. He’d been furious and disappointed that he’d been assigned to protect this woman, who had spent all her life in cushy offices, fancy hotels and posh boarding schools, and yet got to make decisions about foreign policy and military action that she had no fucking clue about.

He was sure she’d never been shot at, never jumped into a sandy trench in a hail of bullets, never collected body parts after an IED took out a humvee during a routine restocking trip between camps. All of them in parliament had no idea what any of it meant. They were fucking hypocrites, as far as he was concerned.

After their ill-fated conversation about the middle east, things had quickly become somewhat hostile. It wasn’t quite open hostility - no angry words were exchanged - but all their interactions seemed to have a subdued aggressiveness to them, something that he almost revelled in. He showed her the minimum of professional courtesy and politeness that his job required, but made it clear that he’d rather be anywhere else but near her. She was curt with him, although never outright rude, dismissed him as soon as possible and didn’t take any interest in his life beyond his job again. Sometimes she seemed outright exasperated when she discovered it was him escorting her that day.

He had no idea why he was still on her team - he’d expected her to ask for a different PPO weeks ago, but she was either very stubborn or didn’t really give a shit. He’d be alright with being around her, if it wasn’t for the fact that his body hadn’t gotten caught up with his brain when it came to her. Ever since she’d worn his shirt, when he’d realized she wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes, he’d been unable to stop himself from imagining her in various, rather inappropriate scenarios, that presented themselves to him as random imaginary flashes at inopportune moments.

She’d stopped calling him David and had reverted back to using either his title or his rank, and he couldn’t help it, he could almost hear her breathily moan “PS Budd” into his ear as he was sliding in and out of her. He’d have her wrists pinned above her head with one of his hands, and the other one would be between her legs, making her come faster than she’d ever thought she could. Most of the scenarios in his head took place in her flat (with the home office elevator being one notable exception), and having to be there every day only added to his discomfort. Seeing her come out of her bedroom in the mornings made him think of all the many things he could do to her in there. The kitchen counter looked enticing and just the right height for hoisting her up on to it.The table in her lounge nearly undid him with how much he still wanted to bend her over it and make her scream his name.

It was that very table that finally got him into trouble. It was a day just like any other day, he’d been through her flat, given her the all clear, but had then proceeded to do some extra checks that he liked to complete once a week. While he was inspecting doors for possible signs of illegal entry and doing a superficial sweep for listening devices she’d moved through to the lounge and spread out some documents from her red box on the dining table.

He moved into the couch area behind her to unlock each window and relock it to be sure the locks hadn’t been tampered with. He’d just finished on the last window, pulled the curtains closed and turned around - and stopped dead in his tracks. She was leaning over the table, looking at a document in the far corner. Her elbows were resting on the surface, her back nearly parallel with the top of the desk, her arse sticking out towards him. He swallowed. Hard. It was the perfect position, just like he’d always imagined it, only with considerable more clothing involved. He would put his hands on her back to push her down, then maybe lean over her, one arm braced against the desk for support, the other around her waist to pull her closer into him. He’d move into her, hard and fast, and she’d push back into him with every thrust, urging him on. He could almost feel her skin against his hands, her bottom pressed into his thighs, could almost hear her panting. His trousers started to feel a little tight and he was so focused on her backside that he completely missed the upper part of her body moving until her head was almost fully turned towards him over her shoulder. He moved his eyes up at the last second and they met hers across the room.

_SHIT._

He wasn’t sure if she’d seen him staring at her ass, he thought probably, though hopefully not, but there was a slightly curious expression on her face as she straightened that really had no other explanation. He quickly clasped his hands in front of his groin, covering himself, standing to attention.

“All done, ma’am,” he said and made a hasty exit, feeling her eyes on his back as he strode towards the flat door. He went home, and for the first of what would be many, many nights, jerked himself off while thinking of her. He tried to think of Vicky as usual, Vicky’s hands on him, Vicky’s head between his legs, but Julia pushed to the front of his mind no matter how hard he tried to not let her. It was Julia’s legs wrapped around him that he imagined, Julia’s mouth moaning into his ear. When he came, his relief was short lived and quickly replaced by anger - anger that someone he despised was allowed to have such an effect on him.

It was then that Julia started fucking with him. It started out small, so small that he kept second guessing it and telling himself he was being paranoid. A lingering glance here, a too-close brush by there, then bending over to pick something up right in front of him. She never outright touched him and most of it was only little things, so small that they could be entirely accidental, and for the longest time, he believed they were. That didn’t diminished their effect though. Most of his evenings with her, no matter how short or long, were spent in a constant state of sexual frustration, then in a haze of anger and arousal when he got home and still had her on his mind until he used his hands on himself. She started to rule both his days and his nights and he was livid about it.

His one single goal became to be reassigned. He couldn’t exactly ask for it - if you got a difficult principal you took one for the team and stuck it out for the duration of your assignment. If he did request a transfer, there’d be forms to fill in and questions asked that he didn’t have reasonable answers for. He couldn’t imagine “I can’t stop thinking about fucking my principal” made for a suitable response on a RaSP form.

No, it had to be her. She’d have to go and ask for a different PPO. He’d have to wrangle it so she’d want him gone, without breaking protocol or neglecting his duties. He wasn’t going to be unprofessional about it, and he wasn’t going to endanger her safety, no matter how much he wanted off her team.

He stopped any kind of interactions that could be interpreted as even remotely friendly, reduced his greetings from “Good Morning” and “Have a good evening” to a morning nod and an evening nod, accompanied by a curt “ma’am”. He set himself the challenge of communicating in as few words as possibly, preferably in “ma’am”s and nothing else, and three out of four days, he succeeded. Unfortunately this didn’t seem to faze her, in fact, he had a suspicion she might find it amusing - and it did nothing to stop her little escapades.

She stuck to small things for a few weeks, small things that could be explained away easily. Her hands in her hair, massaging her own scalp, while letting out a small satisfied moan (He nearly ran into a chair in the lounge). Leaning over the couch to get the remote in a top that had just a little more cleavage than she’d usually wear (He coughed in discomfort). Stretching her entire body like a cat, hands on the door frame, after taking off her jacket and shoes (Instant hard-on, and he left rather abruptly). He knew that if he ever brought it up, she’d laugh at him, call him ridiculous and tell him he was being delusional. He was pretty sure he was. Being an absolute idiot, wishing things into existence that were far removed from reality.

A few days later, she opened the door for him when he rang the bell, tea cup in hand, and told him she’d be “just a minute”. He opted to wait in the hallway, but was interrupted by a sudden, clattering noise from the kitchen.

“SHIT,” he heard next and, when he moved through in alarm, nearly ran into her when she came shooting out of the kitchen door. Her blue shirt had dark splotches all over it - she’d managed to spill tea all over herself this time. He allowed himself a satisfied little smile at her mishap, and watched her hasten into her bedroom. She pushed at the door behind her, but didn’t give it enough force to close it more than halfway. He could hear her rummage around, then she came back into view, laying out a new blouse on the bed. He could see her back, her hands somewhere around her front, and his mouth went uncomfortably dry when he realized she was in the middle of unbuttoning her blouse. He thought of stepping away, giving her some privacy, but somehow couldn’t get himself to move a single inch. The blouse dropped off her shoulders, revealing the skin of her entire backside, with just the band of her bra covering it. He wanted to put his hand on the naked skin of her back, sliding up right along her spine all the way to her neck and into her hair. Her skin would be warm and smooth underneath his touch, and maybe she’d shiver at the contact. The urge to move forward and put his tingling fingers right there, at the very top of her trousers, was so strong he had to physically restrain himself from moving forward. Instead he watched on as she looked down at herself, gave an irritated sigh and circled her hands around her back with the clear intention of unfastening her bra.

He must have made some little noise, a gasp probably, maybe a sharp intake of breath, because she stopped before she reached the clasp, and inclined her head slightly towards him, back over her shoulder. Not enough to see him, all the way out there, but enough to know that the door wasn’t closed as far as she had meant it to be. He felt rooted to the spot, and at the same wanted to get away as far away as fast as possible. And then she moved her hands back towards each other, almost in slow motion, until her fingers met at the clasp. She deliberately and slowly undid it, pulled the bra of her shoulder and dropped it on the bed, leaving him breathless and unable to move, confronted with the view of her entire naked backside - an endless expanse of pale, enticingly smooth skin. She knew he was there, he was sure. She knew he was there, watching, wanting - maybe she had even left that door open on purpose. A hot flash went through him, ending straight somewhere in his groin and he could feel himself practically twitching to life there. He clenched his fists around his traitorous fingers, wanting so much to touch her, cursing the entire universe for putting him into this situation. Wanting something that he didn’t want to want and could never have.

In his fantasies that night, she turned around after taking her bra off, walked towards him and pressed her whole body flush against his, her nipples digging into the fabric of his shirt and her hands around his neck. He finally admitted to himself that he was not, in fact, making it all up. Julia Montague was deliberately, purposefully fucking with him - and had been doing so for a good long while. She must have seen him staring at her arse all those weeks ago and realized that he couldn’t control himself around her, as much as he hated it. She was messing with him so he’d do something stupid, embarrass himself, and then she could report back to Craddock with the perfect reason to kick him off her team. Or she was trying to rile him up enough so he’d go and _beg_ to be transferred. This was all a big, twisted game - a game of who would give in first and get him reassigned.

He was determined that it wasn’t going to be him. He wasn’t going to have it. He wasn’t going to be bested by a posh Tory politician who was apparently out to ruin his career and reputation, all because he didn’t agree with her political views. He was going to outlast her. If anyone was going to give up first, it was going to be her.


End file.
